Secrets
by LLawliet566
Summary: Ever since Sherlock could remember, he had big menacing black wings on his back. He goes through lengthy efforts to keep them a secret from John, but when a murderer targets Sherlock he will have to make difficult decisions that risk his and John's life. I suck at summaries, though I promise it is good. (Abuse warning for chapters 2 and on.)
1. Prologue

**As you may be aware, I already have another two fanfictions in progress but yet I am starting another one lol**

 **My death not fanfiction is on hiatus until I can come up with a good plan for it, which should be by December. I am going to try to update the Big Hero 6 fanfiction once a month, while this one should be updated every month to two months, as it is not my priority fanfiction.**  
 **I refuse to abandon stories.**

 **Now, I don't know how many people will like this fanfiction, but I am going to go ahead and upload both the "Prologue" and "Chapter 1"**  
 **Please enjoy my story, and please feel free to review; I love to read them. I might not respond until I'm about to upload another chapter, but I will answer you eventually.**

 **You can skip this prologue if you really don't feel like reading it, but it explains very important things to the story unless you really want to wait to read it until later**

 **Now enjoy the story!**

Prologue

Ever since Sherlock could remember, he had big menacing black wings on his back. It was an experiment performed on his mother, in which his DNA was mixed with a mutated raven. Specifically the gene for forming wings.

His mother didn't want to do the experiment, but his father insisted upon donating his younger son to science. As long as it would further the human race and give him money, he wouldn't care what he would have to sacrifice. Hence his mutated form.

He hid his wings from everyone, even John. When people saw his wings it wasn't very pleasant experience for him. They mostly stared, but he could hear the quick intake of their breath. It was distracting, and (though he would never admit it) it made him feel as though he was small under their judging gazes.

Mycroft did his best to find tailors that asked no questions. Nor did they stare, his brother's influence no doubt. His clothes were specially made so that his wings were easily hidden without cramping them too much. They had rather large slits in the back so he could stretch his wings out if needed, but there was material sewn over the slits so it looked normal, leaving a small (but fitting) gap for his massive black appendages.

Mycroft had expressed several times that these were just for emergencies, and for nothing else. He knew of his little brother's escapades on London's rooftops. Sherlock had several close calls that would have sent him sprawling on the small roads, if not for his wings saving him at last minute.

As time went on, Sherlock had to be very cautious as he met his new flat mate, John Watson. The doctor was good at watching out for Sherlock, even keeping him safe. This made the rooftop chases so much more difficult. He had to assess the route as carefully as possible in the short amount he had, just to make sure he wouldn't go over the edge of the buildings. John would follow behind Sherlock faithfully but very cautiously. He didn't have Sherlock's long legs. John seemed to be very glad once the detective led him down a fire escape to continue the chase. Later Mycroft texted his frustration at Sherlock's recklessness.

Still Sherlock was able to keep his secret from John.

 **Yes, I know this is short but I am also uploading the first chapter along with it right now as you are reading this! (If I haven't already because I will not be updating individual chapters unless there is something absolutely wrong with the story)**

 **I'm too lazy to try to find the place to put in the grey divider thing there, so just pretend please.**  
 **Tell me what you think, please!**

 **I think that this one is more detailed than my other fanfictions and that is why it will take me up to two months to update. This is because I am in college and I have a lot of homework, so please forgive me for how long it will take me to update.**

 **Thank you for reading (if there is anyone there lol)**


	2. Chapter 1

**Hello, and welcome back to my fanfiction!**

 **So if you read the prologue, you would know that I am uploading this right after it.**

 **Also you would know that I am planning on updating this every one to two months due to my busy schedule with college homework and my big hero 6 fanfiction; Mistakes.**

 **I also think that this fanfiction is a lot more detailed than Mistakes, but it might just be me.**

 **Reviews are appreciated and will be read.**

 **Thank you Rosycat for telling me that the website screwed up the chapters, look I fixed it!**

Chapter 1

Sherlock opened his eyes blearily, observing the bright morning light filtering through his this curtains. It illuminated the dust particles floating in the air, descending gracefully on smooth surfaces. Sherlock yawned while stretching his wings as much as possible in his small room. His light feathers brushed against the walls, but his wings were only half way extended.

He only moved from his space when he heard John shuffling in the kitchen. Sherlock stood, grabbing his robe from the hook on the door. He swiftly folded his wings and pulled them into the slits of his robe. He quietly opened the door and lightly stepped into the kitchen where John was preparing himself breakfast. He was making toast and eggs.

"I wouldn't touch the bread if I were you." Sherlock said behind the shorter man. John jumped, almost dropping the spatula flipping the eggs. He set the offending item down before facing Sherlock.

"Why?" John questioned with frustration clear in his voice. Sherlock noted John's lips, which were tightly pressed together. Sherlock knew this meant John was suppressing his emotions as much as he could.

"Experiment. Testing the absorption of deadly poisons in bread. That one specifically is odorless and colorless. It's quite interesting actually-"

"Not now, Sherlock. How many times have I told you to keep your experiments away from the food?" John sighed in frustration, rubbing his face harshly. Sherlock waited patiently for John to calm down. Sherlock's phone interrupted John from his thoughts as it buzzed on the cluttered table in the dining area.

"It's probably Lestrade." Sherlock moved to answer the cell. It was not Lestrade, but his annoying brother.

- _Do try to remember your appointments with the doctors. You are late. - Mycroft_

Sherlock frowned, shoving his phone into his robe pocket. John stared at his pocket where the phone disappeared into, slightly confused.

"It was my brother. I try not to answer him, makes him feel like he's in charge." Sherlock answered John's question.

"Well he _is_ your older brother." John commented with disapproval. Sherlock rolled his eyes before moving into his room. He emerged less than five minutes later fully dressed. John's eyes followed his movement from the comfortable chair he sat in. Sherlock ignored his gaze and grabbed his coat from the hook on the wall.

"Where are you going?" John questioned before standing. Sherlock answered over his shoulder, clearly annoyed.

"To answer my annoying brother so I can skip you forcing me to go. Saves time, really." Sherlock went through the open door, leaving no room for argument.

It was several hours before Sherlock came back. He walked straight, though his body burned with exhaustion. Trips to the doctor always entailed being forced through several tests that he couldn't care less about. Most were painless, but a few entailed his feathers to be pulled to be examined. The black feather had to be replaced with a few layers of gauze, as it bled profusely. Mycroft usually had to step out of the room for that part of the examination.

Stepping out of his thoughts, Sherlock pushed the door open. He straightened his back before strolling into the kitchen, observing John speaking with the landlady. They appeared to be engaged in trivial conversation, which Sherlock cared nothing about.

"Ah, boring!" Sherlock shouted, interrupting the thoughts coming out of their simple mouths. John turned to glare at Sherlock, slightly annoyed. Mrs. Hudson glanced between the two before heading towards the front door.

"I think I'll leave you two to sort this domestic by yourselves." She smiled lightly before departing.

"We're not a couple." John called vainly after the small old lady. He focused his attention back on Sherlock. "What was boring to you? You just walked in, you couldn't have possibly be bothered by our conversation." John asked with frustration.

"You two were engaged by a trivial conversation, and you appeared as though you didn't want to speak to her based on how many times you looked at the clock and shifted between your feet. That also indicates that you were impatiently waiting for something, now what could that be?" Sherlock concluded smugly. John gaped at him, flabbergasted.

"You knew that from just standing there for less than five seconds?" John asked, perplexed. Sherlock sighed before speaking.

"You would be able to too if you had been trained in observation and deducting as I have. Now what were you waiting for?" Sherlock demanded.

"You." John replied, his fists tightening by his side. Sherlock lost his smug attitude immediately, afraid of upsetting John further.

"I did tell you where I was going so there wasn't any reason to worry." Sherlock carefully reminded John. To Sherlock's dismay, John was just angered more by the tall detective's attempt to reassure him.

"No reason to worry Sherlock? I should have every reason to worry when you say you are going to your brother Sherlock. You and I both know you never go to your brother willingly. You would rather face your boredom than relieve it with a case he offers, so give me one reason why I shouldn't worry Sherlock!" John ranted with a dangerously low tone. Sherlock was impressed by his tirade, but he would never show it.

"If you insist, I was at a doctor's appointment. I have one every month." Sherlock reluctantly explained. John's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Why would you need to go to the doctor every month?" He paused, thinking. "Are you okay?" He asked, concerned. Sherlock sighed.

"No John. Just something from my childhood, that is all." He murmured before trudging into his room. He shut the door lightly, locking it behind him.

John knew that something was wrong. Last night after their argument, Sherlock had dragged himself into his room in a very slow pace. It was as though he was in pain. In the morning he had slept in and when he finally came out of his room, he was stiff. He didn't touch his back to the chair. John just hoped that it wasn't too serious.

He was sure that Sherlock had no clue that he was watching him. When he thought John wasn't looking, he would have a small grimace on his face. John had noticed how the detective hadn't even touched the smooth surface of his violin. Sherlock would usually play it in the mornings when he knew John was up.

Yes, something was definitely wrong with Sherlock and he was going to find out.

 **Tell me if I made any mistakes, I don't know if I did or not.**

 **I am going to assume that I didn't because I already read over this chapter about 4 or 5 times. Either way I would love to know if I did make any mistakes.**

 **Thank you for reading, I really appreciate it. Sorry if it takes me a little while to update, but I do promise not to abandon it! I never abandon my stories, and I don't plan on starting that.**


	3. Chapter 2

**HELLO**

 **I'm early by a whole month! Surprise!**

 **So I literally just sat down and edited this chapter at 7:00 am this morning.**

 **Since I have maintained at least a 3.8 GPA, I have decided that I can update this at least every two months and the other one every month. I am working on the next chapter of** ** _Mistakes_** **, and I am about half way through it.**

 **There will not be an update next month of this story because I have uploaded this chapter this month. Is that okay with you guys? I only do this because college is really stressful and it comes first.**

 **WARNING: ABUSE TRIGGER, MILD LANGUAGE.**

Chapter 2

Sherlock flinched; his wings hurt terribly as he sat up from his soft bed. When they pulled his feathers it always left a sore spot where the feather was. If he was lucky, it would only leave a bruise on the delicate skin below. Most of the time he was not lucky. He of course grew them back, but even that process was uncomfortable. It made his wings itch and drained his energy.

He lay in bed for another few hours, preparing himself for getting up. He only rose when he heard John shuffling in the kitchen for an hour or so. The door opened with a soft creak as he pushed it lightly, turning the knob.

Sherlock nodded to John, trying to seem as natural as possible. His feet dragged slightly when he walked, something that he was never able to get down. He also could never lean back into the chairs he sat in, so he tried to stand more. When they had a case it wasn't so difficult so long as he didn't have to chase after a criminal.

He noticed John's stares, but decided against mentioning it. He was thinking of an elaborate cover story. Suddenly, the idea came to him. He watched John as he sat in his usual chair across Sherlock. John pulled out the papers while stealing glances at the detective when he thought the tall man wasn't looking. Sherlock only lasted until nightfall before he was thoroughly irritated.

"You have questions, what is it?" Sherlock asked suddenly. John started before looking at Sherlock sheepishly.

"Am I really that easy to read?" John questioned as he set the papers aside. Sherlock sighed, slightly annoyed at John's tactics. He was always asking the obvious.

"Yes. I can see the glances you have been giving me all day, and I want to know what it is you're so worried about.

"Something is wrong with you, though you are trying to hide it. What's hurting you?" John inquired carefully.

"What makes you think that, John?" Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, stifling his urge to wince at the sharp twinge in his wings. They had pulled this feather out quite harshly.

"That! You keep wincing at something. Is it your back?" John leaned forward in concern. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, impressed.

"You are more observant than most, John." Sherlock paused for a fraction of a second before replying. "Needles do hurt when they are stabbed into your back multiple times." Sherlock explained. John gave Sherlock a glare of suspicion.

"Not the way you are acting. You act like you are hurt on your back, not just pricked. What is really bothering you Sherlock?" John asked once more.

"I told you, needles. They can cause a reaction like this in rare cases. I am severely allergic to nickel, which coats most needles." Sherlock said carefully.

"Then let me see your back." John crossed his arms. "If you're right, you should have a rash of some kind. I won't mention it again. Hell, I'll even apologize if you can show me." John sat back smugly while Sherlock struggled to make an excuse.

Sherlock struggled for a full minute, considering the possible outcomes. He was a little frightened how John would react. He also knew it was inevitable.

"John I have something to tell you." He swallowed before continuing. "I-" at that precise moment, Mycroft cleared his throat next to the two. John jumped while Sherlock felt relieved. His relief soon was gone from his face as Mycroft glared down on Sherlock.

"You left the doctor early, Sherlock." He looked upon Sherlock with disappointment evident on his face.

"Another time Mycroft." Sherlock replied hurriedly glancing at the doctor. John gazed on the pair questioningly.

"Is there something wrong with Sherlock? He seems like his back is hurting." John stared at the politician, waiting for an answer.

"That is none of your concern, good doctor. It is all under control." Mycroft glared at his younger brother, who was staring at the ground for once. "Sherlock, behave as if I was in the room always. Because I assure you, I am." He twirled his umbrella before stepping outside. John gazed after the politician, confused.

"Why can't you tell me what's wrong?" John asked.

"It's nothing, John." Sherlock whispered quietly, eyes still downcast to the ground. John was struck at Sherlock's tone. It was the softest he had ever heard the confident man ever speak.

"Are you alright Sherlock?" John leaned forward in his chair, reaching out to the detective. Sherlock violently flinched back in his chair before fleeing to his room.

"Just tired John, I'm going to bed." He informed John, slamming the door behind him. John could only wonder what Sherlock was going to say.

Sherlock observed his wings in the empty Holmes manor. His parents had taken Mycroft out for his birthday, but his father had wanted to leave their youngest child home because he didn't want to draw attention to the family.

Though he was the one who had caused his son's form, he was embarrassed by the hushed whispers from bystanders in the street. His mother accepted his wings, but didn't enjoy the stares he got from others. She wanted to protect her son.

Mycroft was the only one who didn't care about his wings so long as it didn't bring down his image. Yes, he hated to be looked down upon, but he refused to let others look down upon his younger brother. He hated how his parents had ruined Sherlock's life by allowing him to be mutated. Sherlock was already above the "average" when it came to his intelligence, and this set him even further away from "normal". Mycroft preferred the image of normal, but only for it to be an advantage for later.

Sherlock stroked his wings lovingly. They were very soft to the touch and were warm. They were just a little bit longer than his body, but they could be folded painfully tight to his body to make them as long as his torso, and pressed firmly to his back. If his parents took him out, they would force him to hide his wings this way. It would make him irritable, as his wings only begged for release. His wings had to be bound tightly to his back so they wouldn't spasm or flex in any way. This was why they didn't bring him much.

Sherlock sighed before starting on what he was supposed to do: chores. He was required to finish them before his parents brought Mycroft home to make their little prince's day perfect. He had quite a list ahead of him too. He had to cook the cake (which would more than likely end in disaster), sweep the floors (he didn't even know where the broom was), do the dishes, set the table, and put up decorations.

He did the hardest thing first; putting up the decorations. Sherlock was too short to actually put up streamers at the appropriate height, so he would have to use his wings. He flew as high as he dared, careful to not hit anything on the way up. He quickly taped the streamers with accuracy and twisted them as he flew sideways, straining from the effort of keeping his body aloft in the air. It took him longer than expected so he hastily taped the rest of the streamers to the wall.

He set the table next. It wasn't too difficult to put a cloth and decorations on its surface. It was the dishes that were the issue. He groaned, slapping his forehead _how_ could he have forgotten the dishes? He still needed to make the cake as well.

Sherlock rushed into the kitchen, grabbing ingredients as he went. Flour was spilled on the floor and ignored by the child. This proved to be a mistake. He had roughly gripped the eggs as he slipped on the powder, crushing the small round objects in his hands. Their contents also joined the flower on the ground. Sherlock grumbled as he was forced to get more eggs from the fridge.

It took about half an hour to even prepare the cake, as he didn't want to make another mistake. He placed the batter gently into the pre-heated oven. He checked the nearby clock on the wall and started at the time. He only had one hour before his parents brought Mycroft home. This kicked Sherlock into gear as he sped to the sink, scrubbing at the dishes fiercely. In his rush, dishwater slopped to the messy floor.

He stacked up the dishes and brought them to the table, setting them in an appropriate manner. A light beeping from the kitchen brought him from his thoughts. The cake was done. He ran to the kitchen, pulling it out before it burned. He set it on the counter to allow it to cool. The door to the dining room was suddenly burst open as his family came home. Sherlock jumped before lowering his head in frustration. They were thirty minutes early. His father's voice brought him out of his thoughts.

"BOY! Come out here NOW!" His enraged father screeched from the next room. Sherlock sighed, head bowed. He trudged into the dining room with his hands behind his back.

"Yes, sir?" He asked as nicely as possible, making himself seem smaller than he really was.

( **Abuse warning starts here)**

"What the _hell_ is this? Why is the floor not swept? Where is My's cake? What have you been doing all day, _boy_?" His father's red face appeared in front of his own. Sherlock blushed lightly, fear surging in his veins.

"Sorry father, I was just about to frost the cake and sweep, I promise." He replied in a soft voice. His father grabbed the front of his shirt roughly, causing the young boy to gasp in fright.

" _Sorry?_ You are a worthless child! I only told you to get done with your chores, and what do you do? Sit on your lazy ass. You barely got anything done!" He flung his child to the ground forcefully.

"Come on Mycroft, let's go open your presents dear." Sherlock's mother ushered the eldest son out of the room. Sherlock cowered underneath his father's harsh gaze.

"I really am sorry, I can go do it now father." He whispered hopefully from the ground. His father's temper only seemed to grow at the small kid's comment.

"You are _not_ sorry, otherwise you would have gotten it done the first time!" His father growled in the child's face. He slapped the small child underneath him, analyzing Sherlock's shaking form in disgust. His repulsion only grew when his son closed his eyes and drew his black appendages closer to his body. "I think time in the cellar should improve your laziness immensely, child." Sherlock's eyes flew open at this.

"No! I'm sorry, I said I'm s-sorry!" He apologized in hysterics. The man's only response to this was to drag the kid by his hair towards the direction of the kitchen, and further beyond that; the small cellar. Sherlock cried out in pain as his father cruelly pulled on his hair, ripping strands from their roots. His pain only stopped when he was pushed into the open door on the cellar, falling down the short flight of steps down.

He cried out when the last of the light was taken from him as the door closed. The lock clicked menacingly, trapping him in the freezing space. Sherlock shivered as he pulled himself into a ball.

 **(Abuse warning ends here)**

* * *

 **So that was intense... Tell me how I did please.**

 **Sherlock is supposed to be around 7, making Mycroft exactly 14.**

* **Whispers* Did I overdo it? Did they like it?**

 **I really am sorry for the trigger for some people, I will warn you if something like this happens again.**

 **Please feel free to give me suggestions, I will answer you before the next update; which will be in two months. This is a reminder as well. I cannot update every month because of school responsibilities and my other story, which is my priority over this one.**

 **However if you want, I can message you at any time if you have suggestions.**

See you guys in December or late November...


	4. Chapter 3

**Hello, all!**

 **As I promised, I have this chapter ready.**

 **I have been SO busy with school, you wouldn't believe! Next week is finals week and it has been so hard trying to write fanfiction in that time.**

 **Well anyways, here you go.**

 **WARNING: Abuse trigger, only the idea now.**

Chapter 3

Sherlock woke up with a start, gasping at the nightmare. It was the worst one he had in a while. He had these nightmares when something would trigger them. For instance; Mycroft threatening him. Although they were usually triggered by his visits with the scientists after they pulled his feathers. He sat up roughly, his sheets sliding down to his lap.

Sherlock's became aware that his eyesight was blurry, probably from crying. Sure enough, when he swiped his thumb across his eye a tear clung to it. He sighed in frustration before rubbing both eyes with the heels of his hands. He hated being viewed as weak, even if he was by himself he would not allow himself to cry.

"Sherlock, are you alright? I heard some noises from in here." John asked as he pushed open the door. Sherlock rushed to pull the blankets around his shoulders. John looked at him in confusion before staring dumbstruck at Sherlock. Sherlock's mind went into a panic. Had John seen his wings? How was he supposed to explain that to his flat mate?

"Sherlock, were you crying?" John still gripped the door handle tightly. Sherlock sighed in relief, but his breath hitched at the sudden intake of air. He silently cursed in his head. "My god, you were! I am so sorry, I didn't mean to invade your privacy." John slowly started to shut the door.

"John wait!" Sherlock cried out, forced to stay in his spot. John did as he was told and carefully opened the door again.

"What is it?" He asked lightly, trying to appear normal. As if nothing happened. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched at that.

"Just give me a second and I'll be fine. You should go make some tea." Sherlock suggested to the short blonde. John hurriedly closed the door. Rushing water was soon heard from the kitchen.

Sherlock quickly brought his wings close to him as he put on his robe to hide them from his friend. With a swift check in the mirror, he thrust the door open and sat in his chair. His forgotten phone was lying on the arm. He smiled lightly as he picked it up, checking for messages. There were two. One was from his brother, and the other was from Lestrade. Sherlock's mood soured as he opened the first one from Mycroft.

 _You know what will happen if you tell him, dear brother. Do not let it happen. So sorry for the nightmare, but if you had not been so reckless it would not have happened. –My_

Sherlock scowled at the long text, but continued to the next one from the Detective Inspector.

 _New case, I'll be there in the morning to tell you the details. Expect me at 10 o'clock sharp._

Sherlock quickly checked the time as he smiled, but started at the time. It was about 7 o'clock. He stared at John, who was busy in the kitchen. The shorter man happened to be staring at him as he looked over. John quickly averted his gaze and poured the tea into two cups.

"Why were you awake so early, John?" Sherlock asked, observing as John jumped in surprise.

"You woke me up. I wanted to make sure you were okay." He brought forth the two steaming mugs, smiling. That was before he slipped on the pile of files on the floor. Tea splashed everywhere, including on John. The mugs shattered on the ground, scattering into several different directions.

"DAMMIT SHERLOCK! Why don't you put your files in different places and actually clean up for _once_? Look, now I burned myself on perfectly good tea-" John sopped as he saw Sherlock trembling on his chair.

It was too soon after his nightmare. He knew that anything that was similar could trigger flashbacks from his childhood, but he didn't think that it would be this _strong_. He could faintly hear John ranting in the background, but he was pre-occupied by his flashback to his dream. Suddenly both worlds melted together as he felt the presence of an adult male looming over him. It was his father coming to take him to the cellar, he was sure of it.

"Please, I'm sorry. Don't put me in there, I'll clean it, I promise!" Sherlock shrunk into the chair, pulling himself into the tightest ball he could muster. John pulled back in shock. This was Sherlock, begging him for mercy. John lightly touched Sherlock's arm, but the tall man just flinched away from his hand.

"Sherlock, I'm not going to hurt you." He pressed his hand on Sherlock once again, watching him slowly glance distrustfully at the doctor.

"John?" He asked, his voice shaking from his terror. John smiled lightly, crouching before Sherlock.

"Yes, Sherlock. Are you okay?" John stared, concern evident in his gaze. Sherlock gulped before sitting up slowly.

"Sorry John, I don't know what came over me." Sherlock muttered, staring a hole in the floor. He was fiercely blushing, embarrassed.

"A bloody panic attack, that's what came over you." John replied sarcastically. Sherlock winced at his tone. "Right, now what was that about?" John asked, moving back to his chair.

"Not now John." Sherlock glanced around the room, trying to indicate Mycroft's presence. John didn't understand. Sherlock sighed before tapping on his chair to appear nervous. "Not now, John. I'm not in the mood." He continued to tap on the arm. John's eyes suddenly sparked in recognition.

 _He is listening._

"Alright Sherlock, but don't think that you are going to get away with it." John replied carefully, making sure the hidden message wasn't noticed. Sherlock nodded in approval.

"Okay, John." He released tension in his shoulders, relieved that John understood. Just then the door was pushed open as the landlady knocked on the frame

"Sherlock, the Detective Inspector is here, he says he's early though." She smiled before stepping back so Lestrade could step in the doorway.

"Sorry I'm early, but something came up." He apologized while strolling into the flat. He tossed the consulting detective and the doctor their coats. Sherlock caught his coat while John's fell to the floor where he had to pick it up. They were out of the building less than five minutes later, as Sherlock needed to get dressed.

 **Well I might be able to get you guys the next chapter early. I'll try to have it done by January rather than February.**

 **This chapter was actually early by about two weeks.**

 **If you have any suggestions, Tell me!**

 **Thank you for reading.**


	5. Chapter 4

**I'm early for once!**

 **So this week has been a really** ** _SHITTY_** **week. Two of my inspirations have died.**

 **David Bowie inspired me so much, and he still does. I haven't been listening to any music other Bowie's for this entire week. Though I don't cry when people die, I almost did for his death.**

 **Alan Rickman was/is a huge acting inspiration to me because of how much** ** _emotion_** **he puts into his acting.**

 **These two men died of cancer at the age of 69, and they will be missed. Always.**

Chapter 4

"Fill us in on the situation, Lestrade." Sherlock said for John's benefit rather than his own. The detective inspector thought nothing of it as he explained.

"There has been a murder in central London. Tall male, very dark brown hair; almost black, curly hair, pale, and thin. He died from blood loss, which came from two long gashes in his back in between his shoulder blades." He paused as Sherlock paled slightly. John glanced over Sherlock's faced worriedly.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" Lestrade questioned, looking closely at Sherlock's features. Sherlock quickly placed a careful mask over his surprise.

"The murderer is trying to get my attention. This is why he chose someone who closely resembles me. I thought it was clear, but I never know what goes on in your minds." He started as the cab stopped at the crime scene. Lestrade paid the cabbie as the pair left the car in a rush.

"Come John, we are wasting time!" He jogged into the building, his coat billowing out behind him. John struggled to keep up with him. Sherlock stopped before the body, a little shocked. The resemblance to him was very unsettling, but that wasn't what drew his attention. It was the black feathers scattered around the room. He took in a quick breath, freezing in the doorway. Someone knew his secret. He quickly observed the room. A small white dot in the fireplace attacked his sight. He approached it slowly, noting that it was a folded small slip of paper. He picked it out of the ashes, opening it.

 _Let's play a game, Sherlock._

 _-M_

Sherlock frowned, placing the paper in his pocket. He examined the body closely, curious. It looked like him from a distance, but he could see clear differences when he got close. The cheekbones were not nearly as pronounced and he had a bigger mouth by a millimeter, but otherwise it was almost a mirror image of himself. Other than the black wings, so carefully hidden by Sherlock. John appeared in the doorway, but stopped in surprise.

"That looks _exactly_ like you, Sherlock. It's a little concerning. This person has seen your face up close." John moved forward, studying the wounds on the man's back. "These are really deep. They look like they stretch all the way down to the bone, though that wouldn't have been necessary to kill this man." John thought carefully.

"Yes, though I have seen enough. Come along John, we are leaving." Sherlock paced out of the building, making sure the doctor was behind him. Suddenly, a gunshot rang out in the empty streets, the bullet making a harsh stop in the brick wall next to Sherlock. Someone in the nearby alleyway caught his eye as a tall muscular man strolled away from the crime scene. It was most definitely the one who inflicted the wounds on the victim's back. Sherlock sped off after the man. The police mostly ignored him because they were pre-occupied by the shooter. John was the only one who followed after the consulting detective.

The criminal was fast for his bulky size, and he moved fluidly around the alleys. At one point Sherlock had almost lost him because he had retreated to the rooftops. Sherlock climbed up the ladder with John closely behind him. By the time they got to the top of the fifteen-story building, the criminal was nowhere in sight.

"Damn, he was too fast." John sighed, looking over the edge of the tall building. Sherlock started into action as the criminal seemingly appeared out of nowhere and shoved the doctor over the edge.

"NO!" Sherlock cried out, and without a second thought, he leapt off of the side. His wings unfurled and were immediately pressed firmly to his back. He let himself plummet to the ground as he caught the doctor in his arms. He flapped his wings powerfully, but it was to only slow their fall so they wouldn't fatally impact the pavement. They rolled harshly to the ground, Sherlock taking the majority of the damage. He cried out as the hit jarred him, he could feel his bones strain under the sudden pressure. His breath was knocked out of him. Once they stopped rolling, he could sense John moving.

"Holy shit, Sherlock! Are you alright?" The doctor's hands fluttered hopelessly over the detective. It was then that he noticed the black wings underneath him. He gasped, pushing himself off of the detective before dragging himself backwards. Sherlock coughed from his crumpled position on the ground.

"I feel like I've been hit by a bus." Sherlock groaned, rolling over. As he pushed himself up, he yelped and fell down again. "Shoulder pulled out of socket, and my wrist is sprained. Could have been worse." Sherlock muttered under his breath, not paying attention to John beside him.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John rushed to his friend's side. Sherlock jumped; he had forgotten John's presence momentarily as he had taken an inventory of his injuries.

"It's only a sprained wrist, some bruising, and a dislocated shoulder, nothing we can't fix back at the flat." Sherlock replied. He pushed himself up on the other arm, using his wings to help balance him. John stared blankly at his black feathers.

"Have you always had those?" John asked lamely. Sherlock chuckled at his dumbstruck tone.

"Since birth." He replied, not daring to pull them back into his clothing in fear of it hurting or damaging his shoulder further. They had to stick to the alleys because of this.

By the time they got home, Sherlock was utterly exhausted. Each step had been in pain as he rushed to get home before someone saw his wings. He had to pull John behind a wall as someone he didn't notice walked through the almost empty ally. They got away unnoticed, but John had been silent the entire way there.

Sherlock trudged up the stairs wearily, but he did not regret one second of sharing his secret with John. He pushed the door open only to find his older brother standing menacingly in the living room.

"Sherlock, _What have you done_?" He hissed at the injured man. Sherlock flinched, glancing behind to John. Mycroft grabbed his uninjured arm and led him to the couch, pushing his younger brother on the soft cushions. John followed and checked on Sherlock before turning on his brother.

"And you couldn't tell me this _because_? While you're at it, you should tell me why your brother becomes terrified when his wings come into the equation!" John was struggling to control his temper. He definitely knew that something was seriously wrong.

"We could not afford to tell you this because it is a _government_ secret, and if it were leaked, he would be punished for his actions accordingly. As for why he is like this, it is because he was taught from a very young age that he was a _freak_ and he wasn't in any standard, normal. My father taught him this, and my father left me in charge of Sherlock, hence why he is timid when his wings are of interest." Mycroft explained almost apathetically. John's anger only grew as he listened to the politician's story. Something in Mycroft's eyes flashed as he gauged the doctor's reaction.

"You misunderstand. Though Sherlock is afraid of my presence, I would never hurt my younger brother. My father would, which is why he tries to be on his best behavior in front of me. Father was ashamed of my brother's wings, even though he is the source of them. I personally think that he is a vile man, but Sherlock cannot see past his fear to realize this factor." He paused heading for the door. "Take care of my brother, he is good at masking pain." He said before strolling through the open door. John nodded to him before returning his attention to Sherlock.

"I'm going to have to put that shoulder back into socket, are you okay with that?" John asked, studying Sherlock's face. Sherlock drew in a quick breath before nodding his consent. "I don't have lidocaine, so it's going to hurt."

"I'm used to it, just make it quick." Sherlock muttered, lying down. John was slightly startled that he knew what to do, but dismissed it. He probably had it stored away in his mind palace somewhere. John rotated the joint carefully, making sure Sherlock was okay before continuing.

Sherlock's eyes were closed tightly against the pain, his teeth grinding together. John only threw an apologetic glance in the detective's direction before continuing. The shoulder popped loudly as it went back into place. Sherlock yelped before settling back into the couch. He took great heaving breaths, recovering from the initial shock.

"I'll go get you ice, but you will have to wear a sling for the next few days, alright? Try not to move too much." John rushed to the freezer and stuffed a Ziploc bag with ice before wrapping it with a towel.

"Hurry up." Sherlock grumbled from the sitting room. John snorted, strolling into the threshold, the icepack's weight lightly pressed into his hand. Sherlock accepted the cold object gratefully, placing it on his joint with a small relieved sigh. He closed his eyes and leaned against the soft cushions.

"You said you have a sprained wrist, let me see it." John crouched next to the sofa. Sherlock delicately lifted his right hand, showing John. The doctor observed the injury carefully. It was moderately swollen and had dark bruising.

"I'm going to touch it now, but you are going to feel some tenderness." John gently pressed on different parts of Sherlock's wrist, noting when Sherlock seemed to be in the most pain. "Normally we would x-ray your wrist, but I believe that you have a grade 2 sprain. I will have to get you a wrist brace-"

"My room, the bedside table." Sherlock interrupted. John hid his amusement and retrieved the brace. He carefully placed it on Sherlock's wrist.

"You are going to have to wear that until I say so and you will need to do a few wrist exercises for recovery." John sat in one of the big chairs next to the couch and attempted to think of an appropriate way of how to approach the topic. Sherlock sighed, annoyed.

"John, you're thinking too hard. Just ask your questions." Sherlock mumbled tiredly. John nodded before continuing.

"So you've had them this entire time. How did I not know?" John leaned forward, listening attentively.

"Simple. Human brains have a hard time accepting things that seem abnormal. They will completely avoid the truth so long as in coincides with their existing beliefs." Sherlock answered, waiting for the real questions to start.

"Are you human? How did you get your wings?" John appeared very confused. Sherlock sighed, slightly annoyed.

"If you would have listened to my brother you would have known the answer to that question. I am a genetically modified human. They put the genes of wing growth into my DNA while I was still in the womb." Sherlock muttered, slightly distracted by his thoughts begging to be released.

"Who decided this for you? Surely they would know that you would have to hide them your entire life, right?" John was extremely confused.

"My father wanted to donate my body to science to 'further the human race'. I know he just did it for the money. Scientists were willing to pay him a great amount because of Mycroft. They were sure that I would be a genius as well. My father hated the wings, and constantly made sure I was aware that I am a _freak_." Sherlock spat out the last word with distain. John gasped lightly.

"You are _not_ a freak Sherlock. It was not your choice, and even if it was you shouldn't think that you are a freak." John paused, carefully thinking. "Why did you react the way you did this morning? Did it have to do with your nightmare?"

"Yes, it did have to do with my nightmare." Sherlock gulped before continuing. "He used to l-lock me into the cellar-"

"WHAT?" John jumped out of his chair, his face twisted in anger. Sherlock flinched away from his flat mate.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock muttered, staring down at his toes. John snapped out of his anger immediately.

"No, Sherlock. _You_ have nothing to apologize for. I'm sorry for the outburst." John sat back into his chair.

"I'm used to apologizing when there is an adult male looming over me. It often made punishments less harsh." Sherlock felt compelled to explain. John's face turned to stone, but he said nothing.

"I'm not mad at you Sherlock, but I need to go somewhere. Why don't you rest?" John suggested, leaving Sherlock at the mercy of his thoughts.

 **So yeah… this chapter was really long for me as well. It's mostly because it was hard to find an ending.**

 **Did you guys like it? Please review if you feel like it, I have no way in forcing you to do so.**

 **Anyways, I'll be back in mid-March, like I promised; every other month. Hopefully this will change when I finish "Mistakes" (which should be soon-ish)**

 **Thank you for reading, you guys have no clue how much it means to me.**

w


	6. Chapter 5

**Hey guys, I'm on time once again! (Unlike my other fanfiction… that one is** ** _always_** **late.)**

 **I'm sorry if this chapter isn't very good… I haven't had time to edit it thoroughly.**

 **WARNING: CHILD ABUSE. There may be triggers, and since I have never been abused I cannot tell if it is accurate or not. I will never know if it will trigger anything so** ** _please_** **don't read this if you know it will hurt you. Read at your own risk.**

 **Disclaimer: don't own anything, but if I did Sherlock season 4 would be out by now. It wouldn't be as good, but it would be out.**

 **I don't feel like saying anything else so enjoy chapter 5**

"No, you can't go outside. Not now, not _ever_." Sherlock's father growled from his chair. He was in one of his moods again, mostly because of the alcohol he just consumed. "Come here and clean this mess up." He ordered, gesturing to the bottles scattered around his recliner. Sherlock knew better than to argue. He had learned over the years to do what the man told him to do, especially when he was drunk.

"Yes sir." Sherlock stood from his kneeling position on the ground, his wings cramped from pulling them behind his back for hours. His father made him sit there when he was drinking so Sherlock could either clean up after him or could go get another drink for him. He quickly gathered the bottles in his arms and disposed of them, careful not to drop any of them. Mycroft entered the sitting room, but stopped when he observed his father's drunken state.

"Sherlock, will you make me something to eat? A large dish perhaps?" Mycroft asked softly, throwing a glance to his father. Sherlock nodded gratefully before rushing to the kitchen to prepare chicken; Mycroft's favorite. He sighed in relief when he allowed his wings to rest more naturally upon his back.

It didn't take him very long to prepare the chicken, it was only a few breasts after all. The only time consuming part would be it cooking in the oven. Sherlock had been cooking since he was seven, so this was no big deal. Mycroft had turned nineteen this year, but he refused to leave Sherlock with his parents. Not at least until he was old enough to stand up for himself. Sherlock was only twelve, and yet he did most of the chores and cooked the food when his mother wasn't home. He was rarely allowed a break, and was expected to finish all of the chores by the end of the day. Mycroft helped whenever possible, but his father didn't allow him to help his little brother.

"You should hurry Sherlock, father is getting impatient. However mummy should be home soon." Mycroft peered inside the oven, and was pleased to see the chicken almost finished.

"Mycroft, why don't you keep father company so he doesn't come in here? My wings hurt like hell." Sherlock silently begged with his eyes. Mycroft threw Sherlock a sharp glance before turning his back to his brother.

"I don't approve of your foul language, Sherlock. Do not let father hear you speak like that; he'll beat you to death." Mycroft pushed the door open, leaving Sherlock in the kitchen. Sherlock shrugged, grabbing the oven mitts to pull the chicken out of the oven. It was perfectly browned. He carried it into the dining room, setting up the table. Sherlock sighed longingly at his wings, stroking the soft feathers.

Ignoring the cramping, Sherlock pulled his wings as tightly to his back before stepping out to call his family in. He was met by the sight of his father looming over Mycroft, who was on the ground. Sherlock stood dumbfounded by the sight; his father must have been very drunk to raise a hand against Mycroft.

"Don't _ever_ take that freak's side! He is _nothing_ without me!" His father spat down at the trembling Mycroft, who was trying to act as though he wasn't fazed by the muscular man towering above him. This only angered the man.

"Father, leave him alone! Unless you think he just a _freak_ like me?" Sherlock growled, successfully gaining the man's attention on himself. Mycroft lightly flinched, even though he knew Sherlock only said that for his benefit.

"SHUT UP!" His father was only in a drunken rage at this point. He stomped to his youngest son, grabbing him roughly by his delicate wings. Sherlock yelped as he was harshly yanked off his feet. " _These_ are what make _you_ trash, boy!" He shoved the preteen against the wall, pinning him there.

"Father, please stop! He has learned his lesson, so put him down!" Mycroft rushed to grip the man's arm. He effortlessly flung Mycroft away, where he landed harshly on the edge of the table. His father only focused more on Sherlock. His grip tightened over the black appendage, easily ripping out several feathers. Sherlock cried out, struggling against his father without much success. The man snorted in disgust as blood dripped profusely from the patch. He dropped the thin child to the ground. Sherlock held the wound tightly, sobbing in agony.

"This better be cleaned up before I get back, no excuses." A door slammed, declaring his departure. Mycroft carefully stood, cradling his ribs.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Mycroft edged forward to his younger brother. At that moment his mother strolled in, but was frozen in place from the blood pooling around her younger son. She noticed Mycroft was injured as well and it shocked her even more.

"Sherlock? Mycroft, what happened?" She asked, her eyes wide.

* * *

John had come home to Sherlock screaming in his sleep, twisting as if he was fighting someone. He immediately rushed over to wake the tall man, but Sherlock was stuck in his dream and refused to open his eyes.

"Sherlock! It's only a dream, wake up!" John begged over Sherlock. Sherlock's eyelids flew open, dilated in fear. He shot up from his position on the couch, tears silently falling down his face. He then realized John was crouched next to him. He swiftly wiped his eyes.

"Sorry." Sherlock murmured. John gave him a pitying gaze before arranging his face into a blank mask.

"What was your dream about?" John asked, placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock flinched away from his touch, taking a shuddering breath.

"My father wasn't the best person when he was drunk. He tends to get v-violent." Sherlock responded, refusing to look his flat mate in the eyes. His wings ached from the memory. John's expression was like thunder, but he did his best to keep his anger under control.

"What did he do?" He persisted. Sherlock seemed to become a thousand times smaller as he whispered his answer.

"He ripped out my feathers." Sherlock clenched his fist at the memory. John started; it seemed as though, in his concern, he had forgotten about Sherlock's massive wings.

"Does it hurt?" John stared at the sleek appendages. Sherlock snorted at his obvious question.

"More than you would ever believe. The longer the feathers, the more it hurts. He took the feathers here, which are one of the more painful ones." He pointed to the layer of primary convert feathers. John nodded in understanding.

"Why did he hurt you?" John questioned. Sherlock immediately slipped back into his timid demeanor, making himself small once more. John hated that Sherlock was scared of the pain John would never inflict on him. "Talking does help Sherlock, but I won't force you to say anything."

"No, I need to tell you so you don't trigger a flashback today. That is the last thing I need." Sherlock took a deep breath before continuing. "When Father was drunk he always made me sit by his chair until he was done drinking or passed out. Often I would have to sit there for hours with my wings pulled tightly behind my back. He hated it when they moved because I was fidgeting; said they were _unnatural_." He paused with a disgusted look on his face. His anxiety rose as he told his flat mate of his abuse.

"They cramp after a few hours, but I have gotten better at holding them in that position. My father thought it was hilarious to watch me struggle to keep them pressed into my back. He knew that I had to keep them there or he would lock me into the c-cellar." Sherlock had to stop to prevent a panic attack from rising. John's face screamed his outrage, but he waited patiently for Sherlock to continue. It proved too much for Sherlock, as he took ragged breaths.

"We can talk about that later, now why don't you tell me why he did this to you in the least amount of words possible?" John encouraged. Sherlock nodded before continuing, his voice weak.

"I was protecting Mycroft from f-father" Sherlock replied. John gasped in shock; he wasn't expecting that! At that moment Lestrade decided to burst into the flat. Sherlock reacted quickly, pulling his wings inside his shirt at the expense of the pain in his sore shoulder.

"Why did you leave yesterday?" Lestrade demanded, but stopped as he saw John scolding Sherlock. He seemed to be in light pain.

"You need to move _slowly_ with a dislocated shoulder! You could seriously damage it if you're not careful. You are going to wear a sling for a few days until I deem you fit to go back to your reckless behavior." John fussed over him, worried that Lestrade saw Sherlock's wings. He was staring at Sherlock's wrist brace, perplexed.

"How did you get injured?" Lestrade asked, dumbstruck. Sherlock quickly searched for an excuse. He decided to go with a half-truth.

"I fell off a rooftop defending John from the murderer." Sherlock answered, making it seem like an everyday thing.

"WHAT?!" Lestrade exclaimed, but quickly regained his composure. "So you saw him, right?" Lestrade asked, intrigued.

"Yes, but I have yet to identify him so we are going to the crime scene today." Sherlock replied. John blankly stared at the tall detective, but gave in.

"Alright, but you need to wear the sling so you don't cause a second dislocation." John stood, "Where is it?" John looked around the sitting room.

"Table behind my chair, underneath the pile of papers." Sherlock answered, thrilled. John nodded and retrieved the black sling.

"We're ready, Detective Inspector." Sherlock responded after he slipped the sling on.

 **Yeah… not great, I know. Sorry if any of the medical info is wrong and such; I'm not a doctor and I am only using google at my disposal.**

 **I try to do my research, but in reality I know nothing.**

 **Feel free to review; I love it when you guys do. I try my best to answer them, but I will miss them occasionally. Sorry.**

 **See you guys in May. I'll try to update by my birthday, but I will be in Moab so no promises there.**

 **Thank you so much for reading this shitty fanfic.**


	7. Chapter 6

**Hello, all!**

 **I went on a very long vacation in May (the reason why this chapter took so long). I went to Moab, Utah and Idaho Springs, Colorado. I also had my birthday in Moab on the 5th (I'm now 18... old enough to vote, but I probably won't)**

 **It was a lot of fun, but I got a lot of anxiety because I didn't bring my laptop. I have to write to distract me, as it gives me something to think about rather than the things I stress on. It also improves my writing skills.**

 **So after I cam back from vacation I was drawing a pokemon thing for his (my boyfriend's, sorry I didn't clarify) birthday (the 25th of May), and that is also why this took so long. If you would like to see it, it is on my deviantart; LLawliet566.**

 **Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, it would be a super terrible show. Though I wouldn't keep my fans waiting this long... JK I would probably be worse lol**

 **Okay well, here is the new chapter.**

Chapter 6

Several eyes turned to Sherlock as the three men arrived at the crime scene. Sally Donovan seemed very amused at Sherlock's appearance. John gazed uncertainly at Sherlock, gauging the tall man's emotions.

"Did someone put you in your place, freak?" Sally smugly asked, crossing her arms. If John wasn't watching, he would have missed the mall flinch from Sherlock.

"Nice cologne, Donovan. Anderson must have been so kind to lend it to you." Sherlock paused, leaning forward to observe the bags underneath her eyes. "Anderson must have kept you up all night as well." Donovan attempted to form a retort, but looked like a gaping fish instead as she repeatedly opened and closed her mouth.

Sherlock pushed past the struggling woman and entered the building. They had already taken out the body to do an autopsy, but everything else was left alone. John gasped at the doorway when he saw the black feathers for a second time.

"He knows. Sherlock, he knows your secret." John said in a panicked tone. Sherlock ignored him, looking closer. He cried out in frustration when he saw nothing new. He tore off the sling and brace, ignoring John's disapproving stare. Sherlock threw them out of the room. They were distracting; he couldn't move properly with them on.

"He kills someone just like me, knows my secret, and leaves a note for me-"

"What? What note?" John asked, genuinely confused. Sherlock pulled out the tiny slip of paper with a shout.

"Oh, the note! Of course, why didn't I see it before?" He took out his magnifying glass, pointing it at the paper. "Left handed, written with a very expensive pen, slender but careful hands; A doctor." Sherlock snapped his magnifying glass closed. He stooped down to retrieve a feather from the ground; it was time to do some tests.

"Come along John." They left the building without a word to anyone else and rushed back to 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock thrust open the door to the flat in a dramatic swing of his uninjured arm. The door banged loudly against the wall, but he didn't care as he rushed upstairs. John followed him as fast as he could, but his legs were shorter than the detective's. By the time he was up the stairs Sherlock already was sitting at the dining room table with the microscope.

"John, go get something that would suffice to stop a wound from bleeding." Sherlock ordered, staring at the feather through the microscope. He turned his gaze form the microscope only to find John standing in the doorframe, perplexed. "Before I start bleeding would be nice." Sherlock rushed. John found gauze from his medical bag and returned, offering it to Sherlock.

"What do you need it for?" John asked. Sherlock didn't bother to look at John as he answered, lightly sketching the feather.

"You are going to use it." Sherlock explained, setting down his pen. He allowed his wings to slip from their tight position on his back. Sherlock took a smaller feather in his grasp before harshly yanking it out. He only flinched; he was too busy to notice the pain.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" John rushed forward, pressing gauze against the wound. Sherlock laughed lightly before going back to his microscope, placing the soft feather under the lens. He then compared the two, searching for any differences. He found none. He gave a loud exclamation of his joy, clapping his hands together.

"John, there are only three people who could have been behind that note. Mycroft, you, or my doctor. The most likely culprit out of the three is my doctor; Mr. Brook." Sherlock stood, pushing John lightly from his wing. "Now I just need an excuse to go to him now. The only way that is going to happen is if something happens to my wings." He paused, thinking. Suddenly he jumped in the air, ecstatic.

"Joint pain!" He yelled, sprinting out of the flat. John shook his head before following the tall man.

Sherlock and John stood outside a small research facility, catching their breath. Sherlock suddenly hissed in pain, only one wing visible. John was by his side immediately.

"What's wrong?" John leaned forward, concerned. Sherlock gave up his ruse and grinned at the short doctor.

"Good, it is convincing." Sherlock slipped on the pained expression once more as he limped convincingly into the hospital. John gave him a murderous glare behind his back. Sherlock slid his ID into the slot, and the door opened with one long beep. He forced his way to the receptionist desk.

"I need Dr. Brook, my wing won't fold properly; joint pain." Sherlock said in a commanding voice. The lady nodded, pointing him in the right direction.

"Okay, I'll tell him you're here, Mr. Holmes. Your friend can come too." She smiled. Sherlock followed instructions with a smug smile. Sherlock led John through the small research facility, throughout his years he had grown familiar with the building; though he never wanted to be there.

"Sherlock, care to tell me what this building is used for?" John puffed behind Sherlock; John had to trot to keep up with the winged detective, who was deep in his thoughts.

"Though I don't expect your observational skills to be as great as mine, I thought that you could at least read the signs of buildings you are entering. This is an experimental research facility; specifically mammal specimen. Though it is considered unethical to the public, the government issued a law fifty years ago stating that this facility could do human experimentation in secret." Sherlock explained, ignoring the look of outrage on John's face.

They had arrived to a small room that seemed to be scrubbed down thoroughly. It looked like a cross between a veterinarian and doctor's office. Several cages on wheels in varying sizes lined the bottom of one wall, obviously for holding animals temporarily. There was a metal table shoved off to the side of the room, a doctor's examination table placed in its original place. Sherlock noticed John's inquiring gaze.

"They didn't have a human to experiment on before me, so it was originally meant for other mammals. It took them quite a while to get funding to do human experimentation." Sherlock answered, shuddering.

"What do they do in these… experiments?" John asked, taking a seat on the doctor's chair. Sherlock paused before responding.

"Nothing too serious. Just take one of my feathers and some blood samples." Sherlock muttered. "Though they don't really care what length of feather they pull out, they tend to stick with the lesser and median converts." He paused at John's confused stare. He carefully unfolded his wing, pointing the smaller feathers out to the short doctor. At that precise moment his doctor rushed in, closing the door behind him.

"What seems to be the problem, Mr. Holmes?" He stopped in shock at the blond man in the chair, his mouth open in mid-syllable. He looked to Sherlock for answers. He noted the bruised wrist, but decided to let Sherlock speak first.

"I saved him from falling off a roof, which is how I think my wing got damaged." He made a show of closing one wing, but cringing as he tried to close the other. The thin doctor nodded in understanding. He shook John's hand before introducing himself.

"Dr. Richard Michael Brook. Now Sherlock, I'll need you to take your shirt off and for you to lie on your stomach on the table." He directed his full attention on the detective. Sherlock nodded, doing as he was told. The doctor took hold of Sherlock's wings, lightly prodding them.

"Tell me when it hurts." Dr. Brook ordered, pushing the wing inward. Sherlock suddenly yelped, wing spasming out of the man's hand. His wing brushed against the wall uncomfortably. Dr. Brook nodded and wrote something on his clipboard. He then set down the clipboard, addressing Sherlock.

"You seem to have some feathers missing. What happened?" He asked. Sherlock smiled sheepishly at the doctor.

"We didn't land properly. I've never carried anyone before." Sherlock said. Dr. Brook sighed in annoyance.

"We have told you repeatedly to take care of your wings, they are an important ongoing experiment." He shook his head looking between the two.

"I should really pull a sample, so I can go and-" Brook was cut off by Sherlock, who sat up abruptly.

"And do what after that, Dr. Brook? I had an interesting case come up the other day. The man had two long incisions on his back, as if something was ripped from his back. He had feathers scattered around him so I tested them-" Sherlock was interrupted as Brook suddenly moved with a cold glare. The doctor drew a syringe from his coat and thrust it into Sherlock's leg, pulling a gun out of his coat with his other hand at the same time. Sherlock pushed himself off of the table, but lost his footing, dizzy. He pointed it at John with a grim frown.

"What the hell did you just give him?" John ignored the gun, staring only at Sherlock. The tall man was struggling to stand to help John. He soon collapsed onto the floor in a heap.

"Just something that will make him sleep." Brook replied. He brought the gun down on the soldier's head with startling precision, knocking the doctor out.

"John!" Sherlock whispered desperately behind them. His vision blurred, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

 **Okay so I don't know when the next chapter will be up, as I need to make some serious changes to the story (I write somewhat in advance).**

 **I don't really like the next scene I wrote, as it seems a little too dramatic. I promise to try to give you your chapter on time though, as I am already spreading it out for the sake of my other story.**

 **See you guys in chapter 7.**


	8. Chapter 7

**Hi guys, sorry I was late with this chapter, but I had to at least plan out three chapters ahead of time because my story was altered (they are still not written, only planned)**

 **Also, I wanted a little break from writing after publishing the last chapter of "Mistakes" because I worked really hard on that fanfiction, and I was also learning how to drive.**

 **I got my license a week ago! I can finally drive wherever I want whenever I want... I still only drive to school really.**

 **Also a lot has happened since I was gone... I have gotten a psychiatrist and a cognitive behavioral therapist for my anxiety... Speaking of which has been really bad this past week because school just started and I don't know if I'm going to drop any classes.**

 **Because of this, I don't think I am going to drop my Skeletal Forensics class because I find it interesting, even if it is really hard... I have to memorize a lot of terms and things about bones already and I've only had two classes so far! So if the chapters are late, my apologies but more than likely, I can't help it.**

 **Anyways, here is chapter 7:**

 _"_ _What the hell did you just give him?" John ignored the gun, staring only at Sherlock. The tall man was struggling to stand to help John. He soon collapsed onto the floor in a heap._

 _"_ _Just something that will make him sleep." Brook replied. He brought the gun down on the soldier's head with startling precision, knocking the doctor out._

 _"_ _John!" Sherlock whispered desperately behind them. His vision blurred, and he slipped into unconsciousness._

A sudden splash of cold water startled Sherlock into consciousness. He sputtered on the water, spitting the musty liquid from his mouth. His eyes flew open, ready to glare at the one who did it. His glare, however, was interrupted as eyes were mere _inches_ from his face. Sherlock flinched away with a yelp, only to find his feet bound together.

"Ah, you're awake! I thought I gave you too much of the sedative; you are quite a lightweight, Sherlock." Brook leaned back, a small bucket held loosely in his hands. Sherlock took note of his surroundings, but was stopped short by another person standing behind Brook.

He looked exactly like the doctor standing in front of him, apart from the clothing. Sherlock blinked, sure his eyes were playing tricks on him. The man drew closer, taking Brook's spot in front of Sherlock. He got uncomfortably close to Sherlock's face with a smirk.

"James Moriarty, nice to meet you in person. After all, I have only seen your shiny black feathers." Jim reached to brush his fingers against Sherlock's soft wing. The detective flinched, drawing the appendages as close to his body as possible. He fought down the anxiety the light touch brought him.

"Don't touch me!" Sherlock hissed, pushing the man away from him. Rage filled the man's face, but he quickly pushed it down as a groan came from John's still form. Sherlock ignored the man who was practically sitting on his legs to give his flat mate his full attention. The blonde man rose to consciousness very slowly, likely because of his head wound.

"Should I splash water on him?" Brook asked, already strolling to the second water bucket. His hands had just reached the rim when Moriarty responded.

"No, I'm sure he will wake up fine on his own." He didn't spare a second glance to John as he addressed Sherlock once more. "Sherlock, you don't like your wings touched? But they are so beautiful!" He mockingly stroked the black feathers, eliciting a shudder to go through Sherlock's spine.

"Perhaps you are deaf or uncaring, but I told you not to touch me!" Sherlock shouted, shoving the man with all of the force he could muster.

John was startled into consciousness at the sound of Sherlock's voice. He almost sounded panicked; something he rarely saw from his flat mate. He opened his eyes early enough to see their captor fall onto his arse from the force of Sherlock's push. He tensely waited for the inevitable violence to come from the man, but the man only stared at Sherlock with an annoyed expression. He reached out to grip Sherlock's jaw with strong fingers.

"Oh you will regret ever laying a hand on _me_ Sherlock, and trust me, I am _very_ good at giving out punishments." His hot breath ghosted over Sherlock's face, and the detective had to fight the urge to submit to the man. Brook watched the pair with a pleased smile on his face. Sherlock threw a quick glance to John, but noticed the man's expression; he was concentrating on something. Sherlock only spent another moment to look at John's arms only to discover one was in the pocket of his pants. He was texting someone, most likely Lestrade, and the way he seemed rushed made Sherlock realize the man needed more time. Sherlock shot his hands out, this time punching the man hard in his solar plexus. Moriarty fell to the ground coughing and gasping for air.

"I told you not to touch me, and I am tired of giving you warn-" Sherlock was cut off by a steel-toed shoe slamming into his side. He tipped over to his side, caught off guard by the kick.

"I know you're buying time for your _friend_ to send a message to Gregory Lestrade. I'm not stupid." He strolled with a slight limp to John and overturned his palm. "Give it to me or I break a bone. Tick-tock." Moriarty said with a harsh glare. With a resigned look upon his face, John handed over his mobile. Jim glanced over the texts John had sent before throwing the device off of the roof.

"Naughty, naughty doctor… You should have been more discreet, and I wouldn't have noticed." Moriarty pulled a gun from the waistband of his pants and pressed the cold metal against John's throat. "You WILL behave." He whirled around to face his brother. "Send him up."

"We have big plans for you Sherlock, and this is only just the beginning. Think of it as a game, like cat and mouse." He approached the man, who had managed to sit up once more. Moriarty placed a hand over Sherlock's neck, as if in warning. "I am the cat, and you are the mouse." He let go and stepped back. "Remember my warning Sherlock." He and his brother left the rooftop, leaving Sherlock and John by themselves. Sherlock leaned forward to untie the ropes around his feet, but was interrupted by the door opening once more. He froze at the sight of the muscular man, his heart pounding. John stared at Sherlock, confused.

"Who is he Sherlock?" He muttered to the detective. Sherlock didn't respond, but he started trembling. The man smirked, halting five feet away from the pair.

"Sherlock, you know it is rude not to answer a question. _Answer it_." The man ordered, his arms crossed. Blood roared in Sherlock's ears, and his breathing sped up, but he knew he had to do what he was told. The detective automatically gave a response, and attempted to appear calm for his flat mate. He was betrayed by his shaking voice.

"G-Gregory Holmes… My f-father." Sherlock spoke in almost a whisper.

 **Do you guys like it? Am I doing good?**

 **I am going to sound so (annoying? full of myself?) greedy when I say this, but it needs to be said; Reviews are really helpful, and they make me more motivated to edit and upload chapters.**

 **I am grateful for the reviews I do have, but I need SOMETHING to gauge how well I'm doing with the story, so** ** _please_** **review. It really does help out a lot.**

 **Okay here are a few questions if you don't know what to review about:**

 **What do you want to see out of the story?**

 **Do you want slash/JohnLock?**

 **What do you like the most out of this story?**

 **What do you like the least out of this story?**

 **Don't worry about offending me with any of your answers, as I will take it as constructive criticism.**

 **Hopefully you guys read this and answer these questions (or leave a different review) because it really will help a lot.**

 **Thank you for reading, and see you guys in chapter 8.**


	9. Chapter 8

**Hi guys! Sorry that this chapter was late!**

 **Also I forgot to save the Author's notes just in case the text thing happened again. Sorry about that.**

 **Sorry for the** ** _really_** **long wait, but I decided to focus on my schoolwork and stuff… I honestly don't remember what happened in the beginning of this semester.**

 **Much good that did me, I actually did worse than I ever have before (though they** ** _were_** **300 level classes). I failed my Skeletal forensics class (I gave up towards the middle, but I really enjoyed that class), and I just retook a test for Math so that I wouldn't fail that one. And so I have decided to go part time next semester and see how that goes.**

 **I got my first real job at Spirit Halloween in September… I hate retail, and I hated my boss the most lol. I'm never working there again.**

 **My mother wants me to take an ADD test (sorry if that term is out of date, the last time I researched it, it was over 8 years ago) because she thinks that I have that.**

 **I'm not really sure that I do, and I don't want to say that I have it and be like those losers that pose and say that they have a mental illness when they really don't. I dislike those people a lot. *glares at them* It would make sense, as I always have a hard time paying attention, I always forget where everything is, I forget important things like doing my FAFSA or the class I'm supposed to do for our insurance, and apparently anxiety and depression can be linked to ADD as well.**

 **Well anyways, I am really sorry that this chapter is SOOOOOOO late, I just had other things on my mind, and I had a hard time trying to get this out at all, as I didn't want it to seem too cheesy and such. I don't want my fanfiction to be** ** _total_** **garbage *laughs nervously***

 **Anyways here is the next chapter!**

Chapter 8

 _"_ _Who is he, Sherlock?" He muttered to the detective. Sherlock didn't respond, but he started trembling. The man smirked, halting five feet away from the pair._

 _"_ _Sherlock, you know it is rude not to answer a question._ _ **Answer it.**_ _"_ _The man ordered, his arms crossed. Blood roared in Sherlock's ears, and his breathing sped up, but he knew he had to do what he was told. The detective automatically gave a response, and attempted to appear calm for his flat mate. He was betrayed by his shaking voice._

 _"_ _G-Gregory Holmes… My f-father." Sherlock spoke in almost a whisper._

"Now, Sherlock tell me;" The man leaned over the detective, hot breath steaming over his face. Sherlock distinctly smelled the scent of cheap cigars ghosted over his skin. "Did you miss your father?" He paused to grip Sherlock's wrists together in one large hand. "Because I missed _you_." Gregory studied John with an expression of disgust.

"I see you have been _busy_. Shagging your new boyfriend, Sherlock? Have you forgotten how much I have done for you? How I cared for you?" Sherlock's father leaned in, his breath ghosting over his son's face. Sherlock did his best not to shrink back. "Have you missed my training, Sherly?" He snarled.

"I'm not sc-scared of you anymore." Sherlock declared, daring to look the intimidating man in the eyes. A shocked smile came to Gregory's face.

"No? You look tired, _Sherly_. Couldn't sleep? Had nightmares about me? Don't deny it; I can see it in your eyes." The man drew out a cigar and a lighter before placing the cigar in between his lips. He lit the cigar with one hand, returning the lighter back into his pocket. He blew a large cloud of smoke directly into Sherlock's face, burning his nostrils. Sherlock fought a whimper that threatened to escape his mouth as the man shoved him to the ground, pinning his hands above his head. The bulky man climbed onto the detective's hips, not allowing any movement from the smaller man. He brought his second hand up to wrap his thick fingers around Sherlock's thin neck, he slowly applied pressure to his windpipe.

"You are MINE." Gregory growled, a gleam in his eyes as he watched Sherlock struggle to draw a breath. He however didn't try to fight the man sitting on top of him.

"STOP IT!" John shouted, his fingers fumbling with the binds around his feet. Gregory paused, but barely lifted the crushing pressure on Sherlock's throat. He sucked in as much of the air possible, but it still wasn't enough. "Let him go, or you'll kill him!" John protested, still working on untying the ropes around his ankles. As spots danced around Sherlock's vision, Gregory finally let the tall man go. Sherlock gasped for breath, coughing harshly. The bulky man stood, anger clearly showing on his face. Sherlock curled into a ball, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, still taking in wheezing breaths. Gregory advanced on the doctor, his fists curled.

"W-Wait!" Sherlock's hoarse voice pleaded to his father. He uncurled slowly, not wanting to aggravate his breathing. Gregory gave him his full attention. "Please d-don't hurt him." Sherlock managed to stutter out.

"And why not?" His father reached out; one fist went to John's hair, and the other went to grasp the shorter man. He pulled the doctor harshly to his knees. "Why Sherlock, do you _care_ for him?" He mocked. He gave the doctor a shake, smiling at the pained expression. Sherlock shakily pushed himself up and stood. He swayed on the spot, but his wings quickly flared out to catch is balance.

"He's my f-friend." Sherlock replied, but his eyes were only on his flat mate. Gregory smirked at the detective, seeing through his flare of bravery.

"And what are you going to do about it?" He lowered himself to John's level. He doctor ignored the intimidating man in front of him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of his fear. Sherlock paused, unsure.

"I-I'll do anything. Please leave him alone." Sherlock whispered, defeat shining on his face. His father chuckled, dropping John. Without warning, John propelled himself upward, slamming his weight into Holmes's torso. John had clearly faked being tied at the ankles. They both toppled down with John on top. Sherlock froze, not knowing what to do as his friend was shoved off of his father. Gregory was over a foot taller than John, and he had more muscle mass than the small doctor. He punched the doctor in the head once, and that was all it took before John was too disoriented to fight. Gregory drove his fist into his stomach for good measure; he didn't want any more interruptions. He whirled on his son, breathing heavily from his fight with John.

"He d-didn't mean it." Sherlock tried to soothe his father's rage. Gregory snorted, clearly not believing his son. He lashed out, and his foot struck Sherlock's face.

"That was a terrible lie, _Sherly_." He drawled. "Stand up, and give me your wrist." Sherlock pushed himself up, but hesitated to give his father his arm. Gregory was not pleased. "NOW!" he snarled at the thin man. Sherlock complied immediately, thrusting his wrist into his father's waiting hand. Holmes gripped Sherlock's arm with bruising force. He drew the cigar from his lips, puffing on it one last time. Comprehension lit up Sherlock's face, along with terror.

"P-Please, I'm s-sorry! No, no, no n-not that p-please!" Sherlock cried, pulling at his father's hand.

"Quiet!" Gregory barked, and to his satisfaction Sherlock did just that. However, the tall man still shook in fear. The man slowly lowered the red hot cigar onto the flesh of Sherlock's wrist, close to the back of his hand. Sherlock yelped before struggling to get away from the man with harsh, ragged gasps of agony. He fell to his knees in pain.

"P-PLEASE! STOP!" Sherlock shouted, his face twisted into a grimace. The man grinned, pulling the extinguished cigar from his son's wrist. The flesh was blackened around the wound, and it was clear the detective would need immediate medical attention. The man slumped over in pain, cradling his injured arm. His wings wrapped around himself for protection. Gregory stared down at the black appendages in disgust.

"This is a reminder, Sherlock. You are to listen and obey me, and you're not allowed to have _friends_ " He gestured to the barely conscious doctor. John groaned, clearly staring to become more conscious. He barely registered the man dragging him to the edge of the roof by his arms.

"St-Stop!" Sherlock stuttered out, tears dripping down his cheek. Gregory paused, but ignored the detective. He pulled the dazed doctor to the edge of the roof, peering over the side at the people down below. It was a long way down, and it was sure to kill the short man once he impacted the ground.

"Please!" Sherlock unsteadily crawled to the pair in desperation, but winced as he put pressure on his wound. His father studied the pair with a gleam in his eyes.

"And why not? What could you possibly offer to change my mind about killing this runt?" He shook John for emphasis. The doctor groaned in pain, his head slowly becoming clearer. Sherlock took a stuttering breath, licking his suddenly dry lips. As if he changed his mind, his father dropped John to approach the detective. He leaned over the trembling man, waiting for his answer.

"I-" Sherlock never got to respond as the door of the roof was slammed open. He flinched away from the sound, gasping in surprise. Gregory immediately pulled Sherlock up, his arm around his son's throat. The loud noise snapped John out of his stupor, and allowed him to focus on his friend.

"Don't move!" Lestrade shouted, but was stopped short at the sight of Sherlock's wings flaring out to balance him. Gregory ignored the rush of armed people pouring out of the door, forcing Sherlock to back up closer to the edge.

"If you shoot, I pull him over the edge with me." His father threatened. Lestrade quickly lowered his gun, but he was the only one to do so. Sherlock let out a low whimper as his cigar burn was jostled and sent a wave of pain through his entire arm. Gregory whispered something low into Sherlock's ear, with a small smirk. Sherlock's eyes flitted to John, before going back to the ground. Then his face filled with determination, and he leaned forward, biting the arm in front of him as hard as he could. The older Holmes shouted in pain before throwing his son to the ground. Sherlock cried out in surprise. Before his father could harm him further, Lestrade took aim and shot the man in the forehead. The man's eyes grew comically wide, blood spattering from his head as he fell over the edge of the roof.

 **Yeah, I still haven't decided whether or not I wanted this to be a JohnLock, as the reviews were pretty mixed. About three of you said you didn't want it to be a JohnLock, and about two of you said that you wanted it to be a JohnLock. Either way I'm going to write JohnLock, whether or not it is in the final edit or not.**

 **Don't get me wrong, if the majority of people say that you don't want it to be a JohnLock, I won't** ** _post_** **any JohnLock; I'll just write it for myself. I'm going to respect what people want and post it that way.**

 **This chapter's questions**

 **Should this story be a JohnLock?**

 **What do you want to see from this story?**

 **Is the action too much? Should I tone it down?**

 **Any suggestions as to the Moriarty plot? I had a few ideas, but I didn't write them down. Whoops.**

 **Lastly, are there any spelling mistakes/ grammar mistakes that are driving you insane or should be fixed?**

 **That's all for now, and I'll try to post by late January or February.**


	10. Chapter 9

**Okay, I know it's been a while, but to honest I completely forgot that I was writing a fanfiction story at all. I've simply been really busy and a lot of things have been going on.**

 **Before I do my regular update with my life, I would like to apologize for such a short chapter. As a (potential) writer, I just felt like it was a good place to end. Also, I know that you guys probably don't read these, but I'll send a reminder to all of the followers of this story once it is up. IM MAKING A TWITTER FOR UPDATES ON MY STORIES. I just feel bad leaving everyone hanging, and I want to keep people who care updated about what's happening. The handle is LLawliet566**

 **Okay I'm gonna do a rapid fire as to what's happening in my life, as I don't want the A/N to be as long as the chapter:**

 **I've been diagnosed with ADD; I broke up with my boyfriend, and I asked out my almost lifetime best friend (Got rejected, but we are still friends). I came out as fully Homosexual to her (Please don't judge my writing based on this, judge it on the writing itself.); I went to the Panic! At the Disco concert. (it was cool); I'm transferring IUS in the fall; and finally my birthday is coming soon and I have no idea what I'm gonna do. (Probably gonna continue the tradition: write a chapter on my actual birthday (May 5** **th** **) and posting it soon after.**

 **If you want to talk about any of this, please either review, DM me on twitter, or PM me. I might go into detail later, but once again I didn't want to make this too long.**

 **Sorry for taking too long, and enjoy this chapter.**

Sherlock drew back with a gasp, and curled into a protective ball. He brought his injured wrist up to his chest with a whimper. Lestrade holstered his weapon and rushed to John, helping him stand. Mycroft gestured for his men to leave them alone. Lestrade suddenly stopped in his tracks, processing the large wings on his friend's back. At Lestrade's stare, Mycroft unbuttoned his jacket and attempted to cover Sherlock's wings. The tall detective flinched at the jacket touching his skin, but did nothing to remove the clothing.

"It is not polite to stare, detective Lestrade." Mycroft sneered at the man before turning his attention back on Sherlock. Lestrade blushed and took a determined step forward.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade crouched next to the younger Holmes and put his hand on his shoulder. He froze at the quiet whimper from the man below him. "Sh-Sherlock?" Lestrade had never seen the man complain when he was uncomfortable, let alone be this _vulnerable_.

"S-Sorry. I-I'm s-sorry." Sherlock gasped, his throat raw. He could feel the bruises forming around his neck. Lestrade withdrew, stunned into silence; the Sherlock he knew didn't show any fear, but to panic because someone touched him!

"Let me try." John whispered to Lestrade. "He's in shock." He leaned over Sherlock and gently touched his head. "Sherlock, are you okay?" John asked from above him. He whimpered in fear and pain; curling into a protective ball and cradling his injured arm. "Sherlock, open your eyes." John quietly said. Sherlock did as he was told and peered up at John's face.

"John?" Sherlock's fearful eyes met John's before he looked around the rooftop. Spotting Lestrade and Mycroft, Sherlock pushed himself up to a sitting position. Mycroft's jacket slipped off his shoulders. John's eyes swept over Sherlock, quickly assessing his wounds. He hissed at the circular burn on Sherlock's arm. The detective didn't notice the doctor's gasp. John caught Sherlock's uninjured arm in his hand, and ignored the flinch it caused.

"Come on, let's go home so we can look at those injuries hmm?" John stood, but allowed Sherlock time to adjust and rise on his own. He tried, but his injuries brought him short with a gasp. Without further prompting, John slipped his arm under Sherlock's uninjured one and supported the detective with his shoulders. As they were nearing the doors of the rooftop, Sherlock spoke quietly to John, his throat raw.

"I-I need to s-see him, John." He glanced again at the edge of the roof, his eyes clearly showing his resolve. After a moment, John nodded and led Sherlock back to the side of the building. John helped the tall man to his knees so he could peer over the border safely. People had already surrounded the body of his father. Blood pooled around the body, but it couldn't be mistaken for anyone else. The man that haunted him, overshadowed him, was dead. It dawned upon him then; he was _safe_. Despite Sherlock trying to keep his feelings in, he lost control. Sherlock was crying.

"It's over, Sherlock. You're safe." John smiled, hugging the tall man. Sherlock was tense for a moment before he relaxed into the embrace with a sob. For the first time in years, he felt safe to cry without fear of his father.

 **Once again, I am sorry for this being so short, but I plan on continuing the tradition of creating a new chapter on my birthday.**

 **This chapter's questions:**

 **How long do you like your chapters? 500 words? 1000 words? Etc. (I can't do more than 2,000 words at a time, sorry. I try for 1000 words, but this chapter was around 550.)**

 **Anything I should improve on?**

 **Anything that bothers you? Any mistakes?**

 **Still have some time to vote, JohnLock, or no JohnLock?**


	11. Chapter 10

**I apologize for the really long wait. A lot has been happening and it has made it extremely difficult to write anything lately. I also apologize if my writing isn't of the highest quality, as my mood has declined since the semester started.**

 **I have started a new semester at IUS and it is the first time I am living away from both of my parents at a time... I have to say, it really doesn't feel any different. I have to say that I am more lonely than ever now that I've accepted my sexuality and moved schools. I don't know what caused it though. I'm an only child, so I'm used to being alone for long periods of time.**

 **On a good note, I got tickets to go to a weekend long metal concert with my father. Well my Dad did. And tickets to see Markiplier live with a friend. Oh, and I'm going to Salem in October. So those are things to look forward to. Anyways, enjoy the chapter.**

Chapter 10

They had decided to ride with Lestrade to avoid awkward questions from cab drivers; After all, how many people have real wings? John had examined Sherlock's burn wound and had demanded Lestrade to head to the nearest hospital. Sherlock had quietly protested.

"You were an army doctor, you have dealt with burn wounds before." Sherlock muttered to him. John had to concede, and they continued to 221B Baker Street. To Sherlock's disappointment, Mycroft was following behind their car. Sherlock decided not to get too annoyed over it, but instead he relaxed into the seat as much as he could. He was so far into his thoughts he didn't notice the car slowing to a stop in front of Baker Street.

"Come on, Sherlock. We're here." John gently nudged his friend from his stupor. Sherlock blinked at the doctor before processing what he said.

"Sorry." Sherlock muttered, and stumbled out of the car. He yelped as his knees buckled out from under him and he was dumped into the street.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John rushed over to his side of the car to help him up. Sherlock waved off the doctor's hands in annoyance.

"Of course I am alright, the adrenaline just wore off that's all." He croaked out. Sherlock braced himself against the car before trying to get up. John tried to help him again, and this time he didn't bother to push off the helping hands. Lestrade kept his distance and let the doctor help his friend.

It seemed like hours before they were able to climb to the top of the stairs and open the door to the flat. Lestrade helped pull Sherlock up the remaining steps with John. Sherlock was panting in exhaustion, even if he didn't want to show it. John led him to the small sofa before leaving to grab his medical bag. Sherlock finally succumbed to the exhaustion, and fell into a troubled sleep almost immediately.

Mycroft chose that moment to enter the room, his face grim as he saw all of Sherlock's injuries. Fresh bruises covered Sherlock's torso and neck, some black in colour. He could see almost every rib; it was clear that the man hadn't been eating well. Even in sleep, the man was tense. Most likely in fear of a blow. His breathing was slightly accelerated. The worst was the horrid burn mark on his brother's wrist. John blocked his view as he came in with his bag and a stool. He got to work immediately. First he looked over Sherlock, deciding what he should treat first. The doctor gasped at Sherlock's state, most likely seeing what Mycroft saw; perhaps more.

"I swear if I find Moriarty and his twin, I'll kill them." John said in a deadly quiet voice. He then started to work on the man in a stony silence. Mycroft watched the doctor work while Lestrade only had eyes for Sherlock's wings, as if he was waiting for them to disappear. Mycroft was quickly irritated by his the man's shameless staring.

"Yes Lestrade, Sherlock isn't _normal_. Stop staring before you find yourself in an… unpleasant situation." Mycroft threatened, protective of his brother. Lestrade nodded before turning his gaze away from the thin detective. John ignored them both, working diligently over his friend. Sherlock started to stir as John finished wrapping the last wound in bandages. He suddenly gasped and shot up, breathing heavily. John sat back, giving the man more room. Sherlock's wings fluttered as he slowed his breathing.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" John's concerned eyes roved over Sherlock, making sure the detective hadn't hurt himself by moving too quickly. Sherlock twisted his head to look around the room before his eyes fell on Lestrade and Mycroft.

"I'm fine!" Sherlock growled, pushing himself up. Lestrade quietly chuckled, and look considerably less worried.

"There's the Sherlock we know. I think I need to head back to the station to file a report. I'll come by later for yours, Sherlock." Lestrade stood, and waved before leaving the flat.

"I am not as easily fooled, Sherlock. You are clearly in pain and you need medicine for it. John, will you be as kind to get it?" Mycroft sneered, but his eyes betrayed how scared he really was for his brother.

"Sure. I'll make tea as well. Do you want any, Mycroft?" John wearily stood. The Holmes brother only shook his head. Sherlock shuddered, and Mycroft wordlessly handed his brother a blanket. It took more time than Mycroft would have liked for John to retrieve the medicine and the tea, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind. He appeared to be reclusive, and when spoken to, he only responded with short replies. Despite his injuries, he had managed to curl up into a tight ball, his wings pressed firmly into his back and the blanket gripped in his hands.

"Sherlock, I brought you tea." John spoke quietly to the younger Holmes brother. Sherlock only responded by uncurling slightly to grab the mug by the handle. "Careful, it's hot." John filed through his medicine bag, and brought out a syringe.

"I'm reluctant to give you morphine Sherlock, because I know you have addictive tendencies, but I'll monitor you to make sure you will be able to handle it." John said, more for Mycroft's benefit than the younger Holmes. Mycroft gave an approving nod before looking at his watch.

"As much as I would like to stay, I have an appointment soon. But before I leave, can I have a word with you, John?" His steps signaled no negotiations. John smiled at Sherlock reassuringly.

"I'll be right back." He followed Mycroft out of the flat and onto the sidewalk. John ran his hands through his hair, clearly distressed, before his face twisted in anger.

"He's dead. If I get the chance, he's dead Mycroft." John paced furiously, fists clenched.

"And you never will." He stopped John in his tracks. John opened his mouth to protest.

"Before you consider interrupting ME John, listen to me." Mycroft paused, allowing John to settle down. Mycroft pushed his way past John, only to be caught by his wrist.

"What about the twins, what are we going to do about them?" John asked; his eyes hard. Mycroft gave him a sarcastic smirk.

"Well, that isn't your concern, now is it _doctor_? Your concern is with my brother and my brother only. Am I understood?" Mycroft yanked his wrist out of John's grip, not waiting for an answer. After a moment to cool down, John realized that the man was right; Sherlock was his number one priority. Once he was better, the consulting criminals had better watch their backs because he was coming for them.

 **Sorry nothing really happened this chapter; I really haven't had time to write and I decided this was long enough to put on here. I honestly don't know when the next chapter will be out either, sorry. I'm not very good with sticking to a schedule.**

 **Questions for YOU this chapter:**

 **JohnLock? (yes, you still have time to vote.)**

 **What do you want to see out of this story?**

 **Sherlock relapsing? (drug and trauma related)**

 **What can I do to improve?**

 **See you next chapter.**


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